“What could possibly go wrong?” This question has assumed an iconic (and ironic) place on this tour, and it’s used as a joke whenever someone suggests an activity or destination. We’ll always make fun of a situation – “How about we go to this sushi place and try the blowfish?”

“What could possibly go wrong?”

“Let’s cross a Chinese street at night (but not at the crosswalk) in dark clothes with the cars having the right of way.”

“What could possibly go wrong?”

“Let’s take the new high speed train from Shanghai to Beijing instead of flying with the orchestra.”

“What could possibly go wrong?”

I’m a big fan of trains, and prefer them to planes if at all possible. So when I overhear that a couple of orchestra members are thinking about doing it on the day that includes our Beijing concert, I think that it sounds like something I want to look into. It turns out that the tickets are sold at the train station, a 45-minute taxi ride away, but the concierge at our hotel will handle this for us for a tiny fee. My long-time friend Jon (second horn in the symphony—he sits next to me on stage) and I each plunk down our 935 yuan (about $160) for our tickets (fortunately I have done some master classes at the Shanghai Conservatory and they have given me a white envelope stuffed with Chinese money as payment), and a day later we pick up the tickets from the desk. The train is at 9:00 am, and the concierge says that we should allow 45 minutes for the taxi ride, and be there a half hour ahead, so we decide to leave at 7:30am, a few minutes before our other colleagues, a decision which is to have far-reaching consequences.

Jon checks not once, but twice, with the concierge about where we need to go to catch the train, and at the dot of 7:30, we leave the hotel in a taxi, fighting the insane Shanghai traffic on the way to the South Railway Station. We had heard that it was a modern building, and as we start to exit the highway, we see a large, circular building in the distance, and I comment to Jon that you don’t often see a totally round building. But hey, round is modern, right? The taxi lets us off on outside a door marked Entrance No. 1, and we haul our luggage out of the trunk—I have my horn backpack-strapped to my back, and push a large sea-foam green rolling duffel bag, with my computer bag cleverly clipped on; Jon has his own computer bag over his shoulder and a large black rectangular suitcase with wheels that is ingeniously designed to expand if necessary, a feature which inevitably comes in handy on tour.

The first moment that I begin to think that something is wrong was when I look at the departure board and can’t find a 9:00am train listed. But of course it’s all in Chinese, except for the numbers, and, despite our doubts, we go through the cursory security and stand looking around, trying to make sense of where we have to go. Now that we are inside, the whole station is oddly dingy, and looks like it had been built in the 70s, with insufficient lighting, brown walls, and dark floors, but has obviously been spiffed up at some point with glass barriers and a series of more modern offices. Needing help, we find the Station Manager’s office, marked with an “i”, so we think we could learn what we need to by talking to someone there.

Two small women in tight-fitting green uniforms and short hair look up as we walk through the door and we ask where the high-speed train is to Beijing. Time check: 8:20. They look at each other and shake their heads. This is never a good sign in a foreign country. We show them our tickets and it is instantly clear to them that we are at the wrong train station, and need to go to the Hong Qiao station near the airport. Great, we say. How do we get there? Subway, Line 1, change to Line 2 at People’s Square. Jon and I let out a groan. People’s Square Station is the one next to the hotel where we had just come from. The traffic that we had braved in the taxi was so bad that we decide the subway is the lesser of two evils, so we haul our luggage down to the second basement level of the station and find the subway entrance. But still we are not entirely sure we are doing the right thing—after all, the concierge did tell us not once, but twice that this was where we needed to go. As the rush hour crush swirls past us, a uniformed guard appears next to me and after looking at my train ticket, confirms that we have to take the subway to get there.

All baggage has to be screened, even when you are taking the subway, and we pull our suitcases off the conveyor belt and follow the signs towards the subway entrance, walking quickly. Fortunately there is no line at the ticket window, and we get two one-way tickets to Hong Qiao Railway Station, for 3 yuan each, less than 50 cents.

Time check 8:30. Jon and I had taken the Shanghai subway earlier in our visit to get to a historic synagogue, built in 1907 for Russian emigres, so we know kind of what to expect. But the words of the concierge came back to us as we remembered him warning that we shouldn’t go on the subway at rush hour, especially with luggage.

The population of Shanghai is upwards of 20 million, and they are all in the subway, following the green painted arrows on the floor, heading towards Line No. 1. At this point we still have hopes of making our train, but as we look at the subway map, we realize this is becoming increasingly unlikely. We have 7 stops just to get as far as People’s Square, and we aren’t even on the train yet.

On the train platform, a glass barrier separates us from the tracks, with doors that slide apart to allow you to step onto the train after the car doors open at the same time. Hanging from the ceiling are electronic displays, showing when the next train was going to arrive. The next one is in 53 seconds. When it silently slides into the station, right on time, a number of people get off, but even more want to get on. Most people have heard rumors of the incredibly crowded conditions on subways cars in the Far East. I am here to tell you that these rumors are real. Never have I experienced a lack of personal space like this. I just manage to squeeze me and my luggage on behind Jon, and the door gives an angry buzz, closing behind me. Although I hold on to the vertical pole, I realize that there was no way anyone could fall over, because Sardine Conditions are in effect.

After about the 3rd stop, a shouting match breaks out between two nicely dressed businessmen standing between me and the door. It is impossible to tell what they are arguing about, but aside from Jon and I, they are the only people to be communicating with each other. Soon though, they get off, and we arrive at People’s Square. The previous time on the subway, we had to find Line No. 2, so we know what we need to do. Doesn’t make it any faster though, because the connection is a long walk, even inside the underground system.

Time check: 8:47. Line No. 2’s platform is no less crowded, and we realize that it was going to be 9 stops to get to the Hong Qiao Station. Nine. No chance we are making this train. OK, plan B now in effect. Just get there and switch to the 10am one. We take a deep breath and picture the other orchestra members boarding the 9am train and wondering where we are. I hope that our tickets don’t expire, otherwise we will each be out another $160 for another one.

The second subway ride is even more tightly packed than the first – I actually worry that the case on my back that holds my born is going to crack from the human pressure behind me and my horn will get damaged. Gradually though, the population of riders diminishes, my personal space returns and we pull into Songhong Rd. Station, two stops away. Suddenly, the train PA system buzzes to life with a long announcement that we can’t understand. Everyone on the train stands up, leaves the car, and then the lights go out.

Great. With our luck, subway service all over Shanghai has probably been suspended for some obscure political reason. We push our luggage back out onto the platform, and the train glides away. Turns out this was the scheduled endpoint of that train, but another one is coming in 43 seconds to take us the rest of the way.

Time check: 9:13. Once at Hong Qiao Station, we follow the gleaming new signs to the High-Speed Rail line (breathing a sigh of relief that we were actually in the right place), and begin to realize that we are in an immense building—a building so large that I can not even conceive of how big it actually is. I never feel like I actually know where the exterior walls are until much later. We walk for 10 minutes and finally come to a ticket office—15 agents working behind glass windows, each with a line of at least 30 people. High above them (the ceiling must be at least 100 feet) a massive electronic display shows a gigantic grid with columns denoting today’s trains, as well as three days into the future. Each train has its own row of information, showing 5 classes of service and how many seats were available in each. Every 10 seconds, the display advances and shows trains later and later in the day. (Afterwards I find out that there were at least 15 more places like this in the building, meaning that thousands of people are buying tickets at any given time.) The 10am train (train G12) still has seats available, and I match up the Chinese characters and see that they even have seats left in our fare class (the middle one, above economy, but below business). OK, we are set. Time check: 9:25.

Fifteen minutes later, we are next. We are getting antsy about making the 10am train—we don’t know where we have to go, but if we haul ass, we figure we can get on. Then the agent takes her microphone, makes a short announcement, gets up and disappears. Seriously? Now it’s break time? The minutes click away, but I read a sign that says they would exchange tickets less than two hours after scheduled departure under Special Circumstances, with permission of the station. I figure that stupid Americans, led astray by a negligent concierge definitely qualify.

Time check: 9:55. The return of the agent. We reluctantly conclude that the 10am train is out, and settle for the 11. Trains leave every 3 minutes it seems, but the ones that leave on the hour are the desirable ones, since they only stop once. Tickets are exchanged—no problem. I guess they recognize our American Incompetence, even if they don’t know about the concierge. I write all the train info for the 11am departure on a piece of paper to show the agent just in case there were some language problems, but it turns out to not be necessary. She wishes us a good trip.

Now it’s on to the second floor departure level, which necessitates a 10 minute trek past western chain stores to a massive escalator. At the top is a security station and I think my luggage is going to glow if it gets one more X-ray. The departure lounge is not just some dusty Amtrak corner at Penn Station. This is the size of multiple football fields, filled with hundreds of chairs to wait in. Not one person smokes. We are leaving from Gate 1, and with some relief we finally sit down and relax. We made it. Well, this far anyway. We are still in Shanghai. What could possibly go wrong now?

The entire train travel part of this day is a miracle of hi-tech achievement. From the ticket gates that blink green where you insert your ticket, to the comfortable seats, to the display that ultimately shows our peak speed to be 305 km/hour, it’s an amazing and humbling experience, especially if all you know are trains in America. The platform are spotless, the English announcements audible (free from strange syntax) and the train knifes through the countryside with a silent smooth grace that is simply astonishing. The only disappointment is how hazy (foggy? smoggy? smoky?) the view is out the window—we are limited to a 1/4 mile before objects fade into the grey.

We make two stops, in Nanjing and Jinan, and I wonder what happens in these places? What are the lives of the inhabitants like? Is it better to have fewer choices in your life? Some studies show that people are happier when they have less to choose from. Shanghai was filled with emerging prosperity, but these outposts seem more primitive. Modern capitalism has not reached these folks. Does the goldfish long to be outside the bowl?

We finally slow and enter the outskirts of Beijing. You never see the best of a city from the railroad tracks, and this is no exception. Industrial parks, slummy apartment buildings, freight rail tracks next to ours, but soon we pull into the modern terminal, Beijing South Station. (Maybe that was the confusion this morning at 7:30am).

Time check: 4:20. We follow the signs to the taxi stand, and enter a line of at least 200 people waiting for taxis. But there is a system—10 cabs are motioned forward in two columns and travelers sprint to get in, tossing their luggage into the trunk. Then 10 more cabs and the system repeats itself. By 4:45 we are in a cab, Jon in back, me in the passenger seat because we have too much luggage for the trunk, and I produce my tour schedule book and point to the address of our hotel. With wonderful foresight, our tour planners have included the Chinese symbols for our destination, and after some furrowed eyebrow thought, with some muttered commentary, the driver takes off and exits the airport.

Into the worst traffic known to mankind. Several times we are going 10 mph on the freeway, and as the time ticks ahead, I look in the tour book. First bus from the hotel is at 6 for a 7:30 concert. Last bus is at 6:30. But we are getting there, bit by bit.

But there remains ahead of us an obstacle so formidable, that to know it is to fear it: The 12-minute Traffic Light. We get off the freeway, and parallel our way to a line of stopped cars. Which stay stopped. And remain stopped. And continue to be stopped. Our driver, a man surrounded by a cloud of garlic, and with a face of unusual Mongol features, puts on the emergency flashers and opens the door, standing up to see what is wrong. All the time, a hyperactive Chinese radio program blares from the radio, and the driver sits back down and laughs. He seems nice, but gradually gets as frustrated as us. We start to make a Plan D contingency to go straight to the concert hall, which we later find out would have been a disaster because the tight security would have prevented us from getting in without the rest of our group. Finally we move, but do not make it past the light. Five cars are now between us and freedom, but the minutes tick away. At long last the second 12 minutes are up and we go around a traffic circle, back the way we came. Did we just waste 20 minutes and now are retracing our steps? But it turns out that we need to do this to get to the right street for our hotel, and at 5:50 we pull into the driveway of the Regent Hotel. The bill is 47 yuan and I give him a 100 yuan bill and motion for him to keep the change. His stunned expression makes it all worthwhile.

In the lobby one of our tour reps spies us and leaps up, since she had been wondering where we were. They scan our passports when we check in (standard operating procedure here in China) and I get my room key. After dropping my luggage in the room, I am starving, and ask the hostess at the lobby bar what their fastest food is, and it’s a sandwich—15 minutes, but if the chef isn’t too busy, maybe faster. I’m done by the second bus departure at 6:15 and get on. Now I can relax. I’m on the bus to the concert. What could possibly go wrong?

Turns out the bus driver doesn’t know where he’s going. He gets stuck in traffic because he’s gone too far along the main road, then belatedly realizes that he needs to turn off and we get to the concert hall later than I had thought we would. The third bus has already gotten there even though it left 15 minutes after us, and we thread our way into an underground tunnel that leads to a loading dock that looks like something out of a James Bond film.

The concert hall is enormous, and I find my wardrobe trunk one level below, and get dressed. Usually I like to play for a while before a concert, but I cannot resist telling the tale of my crazy day, and before I know it, the Rachmaninoff Symphony is upon us. It’s always hard to get used to a new hall—this one is a bit dead, but better than some of the others we’ve encountered, and despite a few issues with the concert, it’s well received and we change and head out to the buses. It’s the night when our orchestra president is giving a party and the buses will drop off those who want to go, then continue to the hotel for those who don’t. The mood is mellow—what could possibly go wrong?

The bus driver drops us off in a strange, dark shopping area, devoid of people except for a uniformed guard in a long wool coat, and 40 of us mill around aimlessly looking for the Greek (Greek? In Beijing?) restaurant where the party is to be held. Guess what? It’s the wrong place, and after 20 minutes of waiting, we get back on the bus, and the driver figures it out finally. I have reached the end of my energy, and decide to go back to the hotel after all. My friend Jon has also wilted under the day and when we finally get there, we head for our rooms. My hallway is dark and quiet. I pull out my key card and slide it into the slot. The light blinks green and the door lock clicks. As I open the door, I realize that one of the best things about this day is my room number: 911.

What could possibly go wrong?

Robert Ward has been a member of the San Francisco Symphony since 1980, and can be heard playing principal horn on the complete cycle of Mahler Symphonies, performed by the SFSO and available on SFS Media. He is a founding member of the Grammy-nominated brass ensemble, The Bay Brass and also teaches at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music.  After 15 years of genealogical research, his family tree now has more than 2,000 names, and he is somehow finding the time to write his first novel, The Halflife of Memory.